


Fair and Square

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, Marking, Minor Public Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sam Winchester, Rimming, Rough Sex, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the anonymous prompt: "Dean goes to visit Sammy at Stanford and Sam asks if he's been a bad boy by letting others stretch him out when he knows Sammy's the only one who's allowed to do that."<br/>Sam full-on growls, a primal, animalistic sound that rips up from his chest and curdles in his throat, and Dean shudders, his cock twitching. “Do I need,” Sam grits out, every syllable carefully measured out and spun into words, “to take you back to my dorm, and remind you who you really belong to?”<br/>Originally posted on <a href="http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/52253023802/all-dean-can-see-is-college-kids-theres">tumblr</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fair and Square

All Dean can see is college kids. There’s literally a sea of them, flooding in around the bar to call out raucous orders and standing in little clusters, all fresh-faced and bright-eyed and perma-buzzed. He can’t see anyone like who he’s looking for, no one he’d imagine his little brother to hang around with – but then, he realises with a pang, he wouldn’t really know.

“Dean,” says a voice behind him, and Dean turns with relief.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean replies with a grin and two outstretched arms.

He watches as Sam’s eyes drink him in before he lets Dean pull him into a hug, and Jesus, it feels like he’s put on about fifteen pounds in muscle and, if possible, his limbs are even longer than before. Dean’s all wrapped up in him and it’s so soothing, such a comfort that when Sam pulls back and slides a hand down to the small of Dean’s back, he doesn’t protest, just melts into it. Like he always does.

Dean lets his brother steer him over to a quiet corner, and when Dean slides into the booth, Sam sits himself right next to him instead of opposite. Dean’s about to open his mouth on a _what the hell, dude, personal space_ because they’re not a freakin’ high school couple, but he shuts himself up pretty fast when Sam’s hand slots itself comfortably between the waistband of his jeans and the dip just above his ass, his spine straightening, immediately on edge.

They catch up. Sam talks about essays and relays stories about parties and bars and come-ons, tells him all about this one lecturer who spits when he enunciates and does an impression that has Dean in stitches, but neither of them mention the fact that Sam’s hand is sliding further and further down into Dean’s pants, his belt buckle cutting a groove into his belly as Sam stretches his waistband.

Dean’s breaths are coming thick and fast, and he’s already on edge when one long finger slides effortlessly, purposefully down the cleft of his ass, so he really can’t be blamed for the breathy little gasp he lets out. “Sammy,” Dean says, voice rough, trying to be authoritative because goddamn it, their booth’s in the corner but it’s nowhere near tucked away enough for this to be appropriate.

Sam, he just smirks, leans in close to Dean’s ear. “So what about you,” he breathes. “You been a good boy for me, Dean?”

A hot flush washes over Dean from his head to his toes, and he swallows before he mutters, “Yes.”

“You sure?”

His hand pushes further, and despite all his efforts, Dean _keens_ , spreads his legs and rocks forward on the seat with his hands clamped tight onto the edge of the table, arching his back so that Sam’s fingertip can reach his hole.

“’Cause I’m not sure I believe you,” Sam murmurs, and he pushes with two fingers at once, dry fingertips slipping inside of Dean – all that’ll fit at this angle, but still Dean exhales in a rush and writhes a little. “I think maybe you’ve been bad. Bad, naughty little slut.” Sam’s voice is casual, like he’s still talking about his goddamn essays, and Dean squirms on the small, burning intrusion of Sam’s fingers. “You let someone else stretch you out, huh? How many, Dean? That why you take it so easy?”

“Sam,” Dean breathes, his cock hardening in his jeans. “Just—just wait, we’re—“ _in public_ , he doesn’t say, because that’s part of the thrill, part of the _thisiswrongandweshouldn’t_ and they both know it.

“Is that why?” Sam demands, his voice insistently hard where his lips are almost pressed to Dean’s ear.

He cranes his fingers a little further, a little deeper, tugging at Dean’s rim and Dean hisses, bites his cheek against a moan and says, “N-no. No one else, Sammy, you know there’s no one else, s’just—“

“Just what?”

“Just me,” Dean bites out. “I. I f-fingered myself, earlier. Thinkin’ of you. Couldn’t wait long enough. Happy?” Sam makes a grumbly noise of approval into Dean’s neck, and Dean can’t help but add in a stubborn mutter, “Even if I wasn’t thinkin’ about you, still wouldn’t be any of your goddamn business,” even though they’re both aware it _would_ be. “Or if I let someone else do it.”

Sam full-on _growls_ , a primal, animalistic sound that rips up from his chest and curdles in his throat, and Dean shudders, his cock twitching. “Do I need,” Sam grits out, every syllable carefully measured out and spun into words, “to take you back to my dorm, and remind you who you really belong to?”

Challenge glinting in his eyes, Dean locks his gaze on his little brother’s. “I don’t belong to nobody.”

Sam curses under his breath and suddenly he’s dragging him to his feet, hand still shoved down the back of his jeans but now only squeezing his ass cheek possessively, other hand crossing his own body to grasp Dean’s nearest wrist as he navigates them out of the bar.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, stumbling a little, but Sam holds him steady. “Sam, Jesus, the _bill_.”

“Forget the fuckin’ bill,” Sam snarls quietly, and Dean does just that.

***

Sam’s ridiculous.

That’s what Dean keeps telling himself, that’s the word that keeps repeating itself over and over and over in his head. Ridiculous.

It’s totally and utterly ridiculous how Sam doesn’t take his hand off Dean’s ass for one second on the short walk back to the dorms, how his mouth is pretty much surgically attached to Dean’s neck as they stumble blindly down the corridor, how he can’t get them both to the bedroom without slamming Dean up against every available wall, _and_ how he honest-to-God rips Dean’s clothes right off him, buttons scattering, seams tearing.

Apart from it’s not ridiculous at all, okay, it’s actually really freakin’ hot and Dean’s panting helplessly into Sam’s mouth, cock standing up hard and ready to go as soon as Sam tears his boxers off of his body and shoves him down onto the bed hard enough to steal his breath. Dean looks up at him with wide eyes, and Sam stares right back, licks his lips.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

He wants to refuse, wants to preserve some of his last scraps of dignity, but it’s been too long – so, so long without his brother. So he rolls over onto all fours without even a question, presenting himself to Sam and ducking his head as he feels his cheeks burn. There’s a moment of uncertainty where he doesn’t quite know what he’s meant to be expecting, a pause filled only with their twinned breathing, but then he feels Sam palming his ass, spreading him and unmistakably licking right at his centre, and suddenly he’s all caught up. “Sam,” he gasps, looking over his shoulder to see Sam’s eyes gleaming back at him, face buried between his cheeks.

They don’t do this often, see. There’s no special reason why; Sam’s not into it when he’s on the receiving end, and Dean, well. He doesn’t know how to ask for it. Let’s not get this twisted; Sammy’s the prude, all the way, and Dean doesn’t exactly have any trouble talking about sex, but there’s just something about voicing a desire for _this_ that rubs him up the wrong way. So yeah, they’ve done it just enough to know Dean goes crazy for it, but not much more past that, and Dean suddenly feels like he’s been starved.

“Sam,” he moans again, rolling his hips back desperately as Sam curls his tongue inside him, then pulls back and trails his mouth to the side, biting not-so-gently at the meat that joins Dean’s ass to his thigh, makes him twitch and gasp.

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, “always know what you need,” and Dean can only nod, shove back into the sensation when Sam plunges his tongue back inside of him. Sam rolls with it, licks as deep as he can until Dean can feel himself opening up under his brother’s mouth.

Dean’s arms are trembling from the stimulation so he drops down, rests his forearms on the bed, then flails one hand back to settle in Sam’s hair and press his mouth against his ass, keep him close. Sam just grabs his hand, though, vice-like grip as he slams it back down onto the bed at Dean’s side, firmly pressing down once so that Dean knows exactly who’s in control.

All at once, Sam thrusts two spit-slick fingers into him, and as Dean muffles a cry by burying his face in his arms, Sam says in a hard tone, “Just me. Only I can do this to you, Dean, only me,” and Dean’s agreeing in a flurry of babbled words that make no sense to anyone, fucking himself haphazardly back onto Sam’s fingers without a care for how slick he isn’t. “Tell me,” Sam demands.

“Just you,” Dean repeats mindlessly, his breath shuddering out of him as Sam gives him a harsh twist of his fingers. “Only you. Jesus, c’mon, n-no one else does it like you, Sammy, wouldn’t let no one else do this,” he admits in a whimper as Sam spreads his fingers wide enough to burn and soothes it with long flicks of his tongue into the space between. And Dean’s like a broken record, then, just keeps telling him the same, _no one else no one else_ until it all melts into one drawn out, repeated syllable: “Please,” Dean gasps, “please please please—“

“Say it.”

Dean moans, loud and wanton, spreads his knees wider. “Fuck me – fuck me, please just fuck me, god fuckin’ _damn_ ,” he begs, and he feels Sam press a smirk into his goosebumped skin as he dips a third finger in for a brief, toe-curling stretch before withdrawing all three, leaving him empty.

Dean looks over his shoulder, caught off-guard by the speed of it – and he frowns, confused because Sam’s still fully clothed and Dean hadn’t even realised. He waits for him to start undressing, but Sam just clinks his belt open and shucks his jeans down his thighs, slicks his cock with spit; his chest is heaving and his face is flushed and his eyes are wild like he just can’t bear to spare another second, and Dean thinks he’s goddamn gorgeous.

He doesn’t get much time to dwell on that thought, though, because Sam’s slamming his cock into him, latching onto the back of his neck with his mouth as he does it, plasters himself all over Dean’s back like he wants to shield him from the world. Dean lets out a rough, dry sob and sinks down further into Sam’s bed with his ass in the air, and Sam just folds over him, lips and teeth everywhere they can reach – biting Dean’s earlobe and his shoulder and his neck and his spine, and Dean gives himself over to every bit of it, lets Sam do as he pleases because he wants to wear those marks when he’s driving away tomorrow.

“Fuckin’ tight,” Sam comments, sounding a little breathless, palms squeezing at Dean’s hips, “guess you have been behaving.”

“Yeah, how ‘bout that,” Dean grunts, banishes any other snarky remarks with a startled moan as Sam laughs harshly and draws back only to fuck in twice as hard.

Sam’s pace is quick and ruthless, driving his cock into Dean again and again until Dean’s writhing beneath him, the space between them practically nonexistent as Sam continues to mark him up. Dean can barely move, pinned under Sam and jolting with the force of his thrusts, and he’s about to complain but then Sam straightens up and he finds himself instantly missing the closeness, the feel of Sam’s clothed body against his.

Now, Sam’s got one strong palm pressed square in the middle of Dean’s back as he snaps his hips, the raw _slap-slap-slap_ mixing with their shameless panting in the hot, close air surrounding them. Dean’s given up on controlling the strangled, high-pitched sounds spilling from his lips as he lets his little brother fuck him into the mattress with long, powerful thrusts, hands clawing at the bed covers underneath him. His knees slip even further apart on the sheets, Sam’s dick slides even deeper, and they both moan together, Dean choking out Sam’s name.

Sam mutters, “Fuck,” and then before Dean knows what’s happening, Sam’s hauling him backwards against his chest in one smooth move so that he’s practically sitting in his lap. For a moment, he thinks he’ll overbalance, but Sam’s got one hand splayed low on his stomach and one over his chest, keeping him steady.

It makes it impossible to carry on the long, long strokes from before, where Sam would almost pop the head of his cock out before ramming back in and punching gasps out of Dean’s lungs, but it pushes him so deep Dean can barely think straight, squirming on his cock, split open and gasping for it. He’s bouncing Dean on his lap, denim jacket rough against Dean’s back, buttons scraping along his skin, cold metal of Sam’s discarded belt buckle a shock against his ass – and Dean feels so _vulnerable_ like this – so exposed and filthy and slutty and goddamn amazing because he feels like he’s _Sam’s_. He feels like he shouldn’t love it, but he does and that’s what counts.

Sam grabs his hair with an unsteady hand and yanks his head backwards, bares his throat and sets about adding to the already colourful array of pink-purple-blue. He seems to get bored of it, though, or frustrated, because it’s not long before he’s turning Dean’s head with a possessive, demanding hand on his jaw, claiming him in a kiss that melts Dean’s bones. All Dean can do is whimper into his mouth, biting helplessly at his lips with one arm thrown back around Sam’s neck – and Sam’s moaning, slurring his words: “God, god, I missed this,” he mumbles, “missed you – I missed you so much, Dean, fuck, fuck, so goddamn much,” and Dean arches back against him, trying to press closer.

“Yeah, Sammy,” he breathes, “s’okay, I know, I – _fuck_ ,” as Sam grinds in deep and his hips spasm against Dean’s ass, almost dislodging Dean with the force of it were it not for Sam’s huge hands holding him safe and secure.

Sam groans as he comes, open mouth pressed to one of the darker bruises blossoming on Dean’s neck – comes so hard for so long that he fills Dean up and then some, dribbles of pure white leaking out of Dean’s ass and back down Sam’s still-throbbing cock.

Dean whines at the feeling of it all, jerking himself with a frantic fist, but after a second or two, Sam shoves him off roughly and rolls him over onto his back, spreads his legs to make room for himself and then bats Dean’s hand away, bows his head and swallows him down. Dean’s back arches off the bed. Mouth stretched around his dick, Sam gazes up at him as he slips three fingers into his loosened hole, presses up into his prostate, and Dean cries out, “ _Baby_ ,” as he comes, vision shuttering to black.

The first thing he sees when he comes back into himself a few minutes later is a darkening bruise on his shoulder. He quirks an eyebrow, then raises his head, looks down at himself. There are ghostly shadows of Sam’s hands around his hips, smudged fingerprints and little lovebites on his thighs, and he doesn’t even have to look to know that his back and his neck are both littered with marks, too. He sighs, content.

Sam’s smiling at him from the other pillow, and he turns his head to grin back. As he does, though, Sam’s face falls, and he frowns. “What?”

“Shit,” Sam mutters, reaching over to him and touching something on his collarbone that makes him wince. Sam’s fingertips come back tinged with red, and he laughs shakily, eyes wide. “I… I actually broke the skin a little. _Shit_. I’m so sorry, are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Sam,” Dean laughs, “it’s fine. Really.”

Sam still looks sorrowful, and after a beat, he shifts closer and lowers his head, flicks his tongue out over the wounded spot, then seals his mouth over it, warm and soothing. Dean hums under his breath and lets him, one hand petting at his ridiculous, mussed-up sex hair.

Something is eating at him, though, and he bites his lip before he murmurs cautiously, “You know you really are the only one, right?”

And Sam _blushes,_ actually blushes, and Dean has to admit (secretly, of course) that it’s adorable. “Yeah. I know, but…” Sam replies softly, pulling back a little, “it’s just. Jeez, you’re just so… far away, y’know? All the time.”

“Yeah,” Dean says firmly, around a yawn, “and it sucks. But it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t affect this, Sam, alright?” He’s said it countless times, always wondering if Sam believes it. As much as they both get a kick out of the jealousy thing, the possessiveness, Dean hopes more than anything that Sam knows that, in reality, there’s really no need for any of it.

He’s Sam’s, fair and square.

“S’just you for me,” Dean mumbles, his eyelids starting to drift shut, head resting against Sam’s shoulder. “Just you. You’re it. No one else. Ever. I need… Need you to know that, Sammy.”

He thinks he’s going to miss Sam’s response, nodding off fast, but he registers Sam’s arm winding around his middle and a smug, satisfied voice rumbling, “Yeah, damn straight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked!


End file.
